Hassan, …
You were with Emeka the first time you saw your superwoman on 13th October whilst on a lecherous mission. You had told him that the Students’ Union Vice president was organising a #NoBraDay for ladies at the University Main campus - a Breast Cancer awareness rally for which the participants were to appear without bras or camisoles underneath their clothes. You did not have to convince him to join you in sightseeing the array of nipples God bequeathed UDUS - it was ‘game on!’ for him.
Emeka had come to fetch you from your room on the grand floor of E block that Wednesday. You were still dressing up when he arrived. Despite his excitement, he waited patiently - the muster point was the Students’ Union Secretariat, and it was only a stone’s throw from the male halls of residence.
As he waited, he shared a story of his mom lamenting his promiscuity the day two ladies fought dirty at the church because of him.
“Your momma wants you to be a holy boy, nigger,” you commented.
“How can I be holy when you’re my padi?” he shot back rhetorically, and you both burst into laughter.
“Come on,” you finally called out as you tied your left shoelace into a bow.
“After you, Baba,” he curtseyed - you did not sense the derision with which he had done it.
You had set out, introducing your comrade to the taxonomy of bosoms he would see - “dry cones, flip-flops, wobbling mangoes, stand-hard breasts, ” you counted on your fingertips.
“Guy! You be bloody pervert!” he burst out laughing.
As you moved towards the secretariat, a bike moved past you. The rider had a female passenger in a red hoodie, pink corduroy flares and red sneakers.
“He be like say this babe no know the dress code,” you sniggered.
Emeka did not mind you as he was busy studying the lady that arrived. She settled the rider and waved him ‘goodbye’. Then she looked in your direction briefly, wearing a smile. You could tell she knew you were watching her. You would later learn from Emeka that she had grown used to the stares of the male gender that they no longer startled or discomfited her. She had a cherubic appearance - yellow, in every sense of the adjective. Her glossed lips stood out as they were the only parts of her that did not look completely natural. Although her figure seemed extraordinary, you dismissed the thought that she went under the knife for it - she couldn’t possibly afford cosmetic surgery at her age.
“O boy!” you exclaimed upon seeing the lady take off her hoodie after catching up with her colleagues.
Emeka immediately understood why you exclaimed; her bust was glorious. It stood hard, out of the pink t-shirt she donned, in uniform with most of the ladies’. Your jaws fell apart - Emeka did not need you to confirm the category of the marvel that stood before your eyes.
to be continued…
Have you ever heard of No bra Day?
Do you think Emeka would be ‘holier’ without Hassan’s friendship?
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P.S: This work is purely fictional. Any semblance to actual persons (living or late), places, or events are merely figments of the writer’s attempt at keeping in touch with reality.
✌🏾 Chisarai!
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